Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (291 page)

I
replied,
with
the
melancholy
resignation
that
was
expected
of
me, that
I
could
not
blame
them.
Clearly,
Mr.
Strenberry,
with
his
nice mess,
his
clothes,
his
general
queerness,
would
not
do.

The
landlady
shook
her
head
and
tightened
her
lips.
"It's
the
same old
trouble
now.
Taking
too
much.
I
don't
say
getting
drunk—because, as
far
as
I
can
see,
he
doesn't—but
still,
taking
too
much,
too
reg'lar with
it.
A
lot
o'
people,
temperancers
and
that
sort,"
she
went
on, bitterly,
"think
we
want
to
push
it
down
customers'
throats.
All
lies.
I never
knew
anybody
that
kept
a
decent
house
that
didn't
want
people to
go
steady
with
it.
I've
dropped
a
few
hints
to
Mr.
Strenberry,
but he
takes
no
notice.
And
what
can
you
do?
If
he's
quiet,
behaves
himself,
and
wants
it,
he's
got
to
have
it,
hasn't
he?
We
can't
stop
him. However,
I
don't
want
to
say
too
much.
And
anyhow
it
isn't
just
what he
takes
that
makes
him
queer.
It's
the
way
he
goes
on,
and
what
he says—when
he
feels
like
saying
anything,
and
that's
not
often."

"You
mean,
he
talks
queerly?"
I
said,
casually.
Perhaps
a
man
of ideas,
Mr.
Strenberry.

"He
might
go
a
week,
he
might
go
a
fortnight,
and
not
a
word-except
'Good
evening'
or
'Thank
you,'
for
he's
always
the
gentleman in
here,
I
must
say—will
you
get
out
of
him.
Some
of
the
lively
ones try
to
draw
him
out
a
bit,
pull
his
leg
as
you
might
say—but
not
a word.
Then,
all
of
a
sudden,
he'll
let
himself
go,
talk
your
head
off.

And
you
never
heard
such
stuff.
I
don't
say
I've
heard
much
of
it myself
because
I
haven't
the
time
to
listen
to
it
and
I
can't
be
bothered
with
it,
but
some
of
the
other
customers
have
told
me.
If
you
ask me,
it's
a
bit
of
a
shame,
the
way
they
go
on,
because
it's
getting
to
be

a
case
of
----
"
And
here
she
tapped
her
forehead
significantly.
"Mind

you,
it
may
have
been
his
queemess
that
started
all
his
troubles,
his wife
leaving
him
and
all
that.
There's
several
that
knows
him
better than
I
do
will
tell
you
that.
Brought
it
all
on
himself,
they
say.
But
it does
seem
a
pity,
doesn't
it?"

She
looked
at
me
mournfully
for
about
a
second
and
a
half,
then became
brisk
and
cheerful
again.
"He's
in
there
now,"
she
added,
and bustled
away
to
the
other
side
of
the
bar,
where
two
carters
were
demanding
half-pints.

I
went
to
the
outer
door
and
stood
there
a
moment,
watching
the persistent
rain.
It
looked
as
if
I
should
not
be
able
to
make
a
move
for at
least
half
an
hour.
So
I
ordered
another
drink
and
asked
the
landlady
to
serve
it
in
the
Private
Bar,
where
Mr.
Strenberry
was
hiding his
queemess.
Then
I
followed
her
and
took
a
seat
near
the
window, only
a
few
feet
away
from
Mr.
Strenberry.